Misery Loves Company
by Wayward Owl
Summary: In the war-torn Americas, two unlikely souls find themselves bound by misery. The pair are less than perfect, both have pasts marred with tragedy. Magua, disgraced Huron chief. Esther-Marie, oppressed and subjugated woman. Can the two find it themselves to heal their tragic wounds or will they be consumed by the conflict that surrounds them? They could be allies...or worst enemies.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**** Yes, yet another Magua + OC story, something to tide you over whilst I edit and update my other stories. This story was kind of stewing in the back of my mind for a while, so we'll see where this little adventure takes us. I am trying to pace my stories, layer them with intrigue. But really, I just want to give our antagonist as much love as possible. Everybody deserves somebody. **

The water was divine. Utterly blissful on the skin; hot to the touch, but not to the point of boiling. Steam visibly rose from the tub, the vapors wafting upwards into the brisk Autumn air. The Americas' climate was certainly more temperate, even now, remnants of Spring could be found all over the encampment. Daisies and daffodils bloomed in folly, their petals making a nice flourish for the baths. But nothing could compare to the lavish oils of France. Jasmine. Rose. Lavender. How Esther missed those luxurious aromas! Even now, she'd sell her silks for such treasures, even for a couple of drops. But war allowed little comfort and Esther had to make do with what little she had. Jean-Tristan promised he'd make it up to her, someday, in the future. And every day, Esther was quick to remind him of this promise.

But for now, in lonely solitude, she was content with soaking in her cooper tub; it was styled just like that of the royals, the craftsmen taking every effort to ensure its quality. Whilst one set of fingers skimmed the surface of the water, the other languished on the edge, tracing the fine art carvings on its outer side. These stolen moments gave Esther more peace than anything else; at her leisure, she could splash at her water, caress at her skin, even titter a talented tune, and nothing could disturb her. She was as nature intended; bare and beautiful. Ripe with life. The petals that clung to her skin only complimented her tawny complexion, the humidity dampening her otherwise unruly locks. In a few short moments, she felt rejuvenated. Renewed. As clean and pristine as the lacey garment awaiting her exit.

Cannon fire, far to the west, disturbed the peace. Once again, Esther's peace was ruined.

Bang. Bang. Boom. The roar of arms was as maddening as it was incessant. Downwind of it all, the pungent smell of smoke and powder invaded the once refined air.

Esther balked, ready to strop. "One night! Is one night of peace too much to ask?!"

A volley of musket fire gave its mocking answer. Apparently, it was.

Exasperated, with her hands thrown up in surrender, Esther descended further into the depths of the water. She submerged herself, hoping to drown out all other noise except that of her own heart. Its tempo was gentle, its beat thudding absently within Esther's own ears. She had succeeded; the weapons of war were silent now, so far away, even their sound was unable to reach her. Esther relaxed, allowing herself the savour the momentary peace. For now, she just listened to her own noise, the natural drum buried in the heart of her chest. Reflection set in and yet again, she asked herself the same thing she always did.

How had it come to this? Bathing in an officer's tent, whilst on campaign no less. Far from France and close to the battle. To say the least, not an ideal situation. But, as always, it was out of Esther's control. Just like everything else.

Feeling her lungs beginning to burn, Esther broke the surface of the water, breathing deep the air whilst her eyes adjusted to the light of the candles surrounding her. Annoyingly, the gunfire was even more audible than before, now utterly ruining the ambiance Esther had tried so hard to foster. Ready to abandon it all, with a less than graceful huff, she prepared to hoist herself out.

But then Esther stopped.

A cool draft of air had entered the tent, sending shivers up her spine. There was no heavy wind, no traveling gust, so no reason for the temperature to drop itself so abruptly. That meant only one thing; someone had entered, passed the protection of canvas. Sitting up from the tub, Esther listened, tentatively at first, straining for any sort of sound. There was none. Had she been wrong?

With bated breath, she called out to her surroundings. "Tristan?" Had he returned from the meeting early? Perhaps he had come to romance her; two to a tub was certainly possible.

Yet no one answered. There was only silence; even the guns had gone quiet.

"Beloved?" Tristan wasn't one for games, he lacked the constitution for them. Could someone else have entered? Perhaps it was a servant, come to top up the tub? Worse, it could be a lecherous soldier, trying his luck.

In the nude, and undaunted by it, Esther dared to harden her tone. "Whoever you are, you'd best show yourself. I'm in a foul enough mood as it is."

A shuffle finally confirmed it. Someone was inside the tent, and to her bemusement, they were blatantly peeping. Under such circumstances, Esther would berate the intruder, possibly even throw a projectile. But not this time. This was different. He was different.

At the mouth of the tent, the flap securely closed, stood a scout. A native, no less. Darkness all but engulfed him, making it hard to garner anything specific. He was dressed like a red man, meaning he was actually wearing very little; most of the upper body was left unclothed, whilst wiry legs were wrapped in a sort of buckskin. Whoever he was, he was older than Tristan. Significantly older, judging from the weathered leather that was his exposed skin. As expected of any warrior, the man was armed. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, all whilst a hatchet and blade sat on his belt. They looked in pristine condition, unlike their master. In the limited light, scars gleamed like badges of honour, littering his figure like some macabre map of battle.

Annoyingly enough, Esther couldn't see the man's face. The French had numerous natives in their service, distinguishing between them was hard enough, but for the moment, this one seemed determined to remain anonymous. This made Esther uneasy. The heart of man could be found in his eyes; without a good look, it made gauging their intent all the more difficult.

In a split-second decision, deciding to try and make light of the situation, Esther was quick to cast a less than humourous quib, "Well, it seems you have caught me at quite a disadvantage."

Reclining back within the confines of the water, she waited for a response. A reply. Anything.

And the native gave her nothing. He just stood there, as still as a statue. He showed no physical interest in her, and if anything, that slighted Esther. She was a beautiful woman, yet to this savage, she might as well be part of her furniture. That is how little he acknowledged her.

Rather than showing her growing frustration, Esther opted for a more sultry approach. She beamed at him, with an almost toothy grin. "Well, don't just stand there." With a little coax of the finger, she was so bold as to beckon him, "Come closer. Introduce yourself."

Unsurprisingly, he did no such thing and his failure to respond was quickly becoming boring. Now it was Esther's turn to simply stare. She couldn't help but wonder, did the native even understand her? Maybe he was soft in the head, made stupid from injury. The thought was greatly disappointing. There wasn't much point baiting someone if they didn't get a rise out of it.

Still, Esther couldn't help but carry on the conservation. Even if it was only one-sided. "How rude. Where are your manners? Don't you know who I am?"

The baritone voice came next was just as surprising as the response. "Magua knows who you are, woman. He has been told. You belong to the son of Montcalm." With that, the scout stepped out from the shadows, his face revealed and his eyes ablaze. "You are his whore."


	2. Chapter 2

This woman was a viper. Coiled and poised with eyes that glint like arrow points. Only discipline kept Magua from admiring much further. Not that he should be admiring anything at all; the pale women were troublesome, just like their men. Without honour. Without shame.

And without a single care, Esther was ready to bite back at him. "Courtesan. I prefer the term 'courtesan'." She made a show of announcing the word slowly, stressing each vowel as they left her peachy lips. She all but hissed at him, whilst lounging back in the tub, idly twirling her chocolate locks. Her hazel-eyed gaze never left him. "I prefer the term 'courtesan'. Whore is such an ugly word and I won't tolerate it."

"Different words, same meaning." Magua didn't recognise the word at first but he could guess. The white man had as many words; they helped him lie and steal, cheat and kill. Though Magua despised the language, it helped him avoid the common falsehoods. And there were many, especially when it came to negotiations.

With little more than a sniff, Esther decided now was the best time to conclude her bath; water was getting too cold for her liking. If she had to endure this man's company much longer, she might as well make herself comfortable. Perhaps she'd make a game of it and get some entertainment.

Easing out of the water, with nothing but hair veiling her breasts, Esther reached for her robe; it was soft to the touch, pure Parisian silk. Picked it out herself, as only the finest would do. Like a lover, the material hugged her damp body and with it, chased away the shivers of the cooling night. Ever watchful of her uninvited guest, Esther sauntered to her dresser, her vanity mirror primed and ready for its nightly ritual. First came the lotion, a soothing balm for the skin. Left her as soft as a daisy and twice as nice.

Taking time with its application, Esther spoke again, preferring the mirror to the savage scout behind her. "Why are you here, red man?"

Her dispassionate tone was lost on Magua. He needed answers, not the jabs of an insolent woman. "French father sends for his lesser son. Where is he?"

Esther blinked, pondering on the vague statement whilst reaching for her brush "French father?" Was he trying to be cryptic? Probably not. She doubted he had the intelligence for it. She did recall however that the French fostered their relations with natives, offering better trade than their English rivals. Diplomacy certainly was a talent amongst the officer and was even actively encouraged from the highest in the ranks.

Then it clicked. "Ah, you mean the illustrious General Montcalm." And by 'lesser son', did he mean Tristan? Not exactly the nicest epithet. Its double meaning certainly wasn't lost. Still, the mere mention of the general made Esther frown. "What does that dotard want now?"

Unmoved, Magua stood at the opposing end, his visage reflected in the mirror's polish. "It is not right for women to pry in the matters of men." He was growing impatient; he came for the french officer, not his squawking harlot.

Strangely though, the Huron's words caused a bout of laughter. It was so harsh, Esther could hardly contain herself, the fine-toothed brush buried deep in her mass of hair. "I beg to differ. I believe the world would be a far better place if women did more than what men deemed right." Yet again, her gaze became pointed and those daggers were trained straight at Magua.

But the Huron refused the bait and merely repeated himself, "Where is Montcalm's lesser son?"

"If you're referring to Lieutenant Tristan, then he's probably with the other officers." Satisfied with her reflection, Esther finally turned with a grand gesture to the tent that surrounded them, "Because as you can see, he is not here."

The Huron, wanting to confirm this for himself, bolded moved forward. With self-assured steps, he explored the shelter's confines and was ever aware of Esther's following stare. He gave her a wide girth, as one should with any venomous creature. Fine fibre rugs peppered the ground, their vibrant colours matching that of the drapery; rich wooden furniture fleshed out the corners with one private nook acting as the makeshift boudoir. Magua skimmed his hand across the padded billet, searching for signs of recent use. It was cool to the touch and begrudgingly he noted how the pastel bedding matched that of the woman's robe. Turning abruptly from that section, Magua then stalked towards a makeshift study; there was a desk, littered with papers and maps, alongside the odd discarded book and half-finished game of chess. Indeed, it seemed the man he sought had yet to return to his den.

With little choice, it was decided. "Magua will wait." He didn't so much as ask, but rather command, his fingers tracing absently over the pieces of chess. He picked at the ivory array, noting the shape of each and every piece before placing it back in position.

From the comfort of her lounger, Esther all but rolled her aspen eyes, clearly not thrilled with the current company. "Surely, you'd be more comfortable elsewhere. The kennels perhaps?" She didn't even suppress the snicker that followed.

With the white queen cradled absently in his grasp, Magua waved off her mockery and sat himself down, intent on waiting out his quarry. Lesser Son would come for the woman, as any man would, even if that woman was no better than a snake.

The time between them passed slowly and for Esther, it was actually quite painful. Unlike most men, who readily engaged in conversation, the scout was silent, utterly stoic and composed. Hardly the savage she had envisioned from frontier tales. Still, Esther's eyes never left the wiry figure. Instead, she studied him quite openly, attempting to decipher the puzzle of his person. Admittedly, she knew very little about natives; come to think of it, this was her first up-close encounter. Despite numerous alliances, the red men weren't a constant presence in the french encampments. Only briefly did they linger, and only when needed. She herself never strayed far from the tent, and on the rare occasion she did, it was always in Tristan's company. She found it endearing at the time, how fretful he could be, never once truly understanding his worries. Until now, of course. Now, there was a real worry, and it was sitting in her very presence.

Thankfully though, she heard her lover before seeing him, his tremulous ringing out into the night; he announced himself loudly, unaware of the uninvited company. "Esther? Darling? Are you still awake?"

Scampering to her feet, she rushed to meet him and threw her arms around him. Clinging to him so tightly, she could then whisper her warning, "We have company."

At this, Tristain immediately rounded and found the seated scout, all softness draining from his face, "Who the devil are you?"

Esther answered before Magua could, her displeasure now more apparent than ever "Apparently, your father sent him." With Tristan by her side, she was feeling brave, going so far as to sneer, "A dog with a rather long leash."

The Huron glowered in his response, jutting his chin towards the pair as he rose up on his feet, "Magua is no man's dog."

"Could have fooled me…" Esther had shied behind Tristan, her protector and shield.

Deciding to ignore her now, Magua retrieved a cramped letter and all but forced it into Tristan's hand. He then waited for a response, all whilst glaring at Esther as she tried to steal a peek for herself.

The contents of the letters were not favourable. For a moment, Tristan visibly paled, his eyes scanning the parchment, again and again, just to be sure he'd read the orders right. "Besiege Fort William Henry?" He looked at Magua then back at the letter, seeming in disbelief, "Can't be...Is that wise?"

There came no answer. With his task complete, the Huron removed himself, stealing one last glance at Esther as he did so. And rather happily, she watched him leave. Good riddance, she thought, to be free of than loathsome man's presence. If they met again, it would be all too soon. But with Magua's absence, came reality.

Tristain immediately collapsed, head in his hands as if ready to despair. "Fort William Henry is one of the British''s most strategic assets. They won't surrender it, not without a fight." He was hoping to avoid this, had been trying to avoid this for weeks. But now, there was no other option; they were to march on the position and take it by force. Die trying if need be.

For a moment, Esther looked on, pitying her patron with as much compassion as she could muster. "Shhh, hush now." She came to him and cradled him into her chest; he always welcomed that comfort. For the briefest moment, it made him forget. Made him feel at peace.


End file.
